Morgawr

6

When he saw Truls Rohk move toward his sister, Bek Ohmsford didn’t take time to consider the consequences of what he did next. All he knew was that if he failed to act, the shape-shifter would kill her. It didn’t matter what the other had promised earlier, in a moment of rational thought, away from the carnage in which they found themselves now. Once Truls saw her kneeling at the side of the fallen Walker, the Sword of Shannara in hand and blood everywhere, that promise might as well have been written on water.

If Bek had allowed his emotions to get the better of him, perhaps he would have reacted the same way as Truls Rohk. But Bek could see from his sister’s face that something was very wrong with her. She was staring skyward, but she wasn’t seeing anything. She held the Sword of Shannara, but not as if it was a weapon she had just used. Nor did he think she would rely on the talisman to take the life of the Druid. She would rely on her own magic, the magic of the wishsong, and if she had done so here, there would not be this much blood.

Once he got past his initial shock, Bek knew there was more to what he was seeing than appearances indicated. But Truls Rohk was behind Grianne and couldn’t see her face. Not that it would have mattered, since he was not inclined to feel the same way Bek did. For the shape-shifter, the Ilse Witch was a dangerous enemy and nothing less, and if there was any reason to suspect she might harm them, he wouldn’t think twice about stopping her.

So Bek attacked him. He did so in a reaction born out of desperation, intending to hold the other back without really harming him. But Truls Rohk was so enormously strong that Bek couldn’t afford to employ half measures when calling up the power of the wishsong. He hadn’t mastered it yet anyway, not in the way that Grianne had, having only just discovered a few months earlier that he even had the use of it. The best he could do was to hope it had the intended effect.

He sent it spinning out in an entangling web of magic that snared Truls and sent him tumbling head over heels through the wreckage of the chamber. The shape-shifter went down, but he was back up again almost at once, throwing off his concealment, revealing himself instantly, big and dark and dangerous. With the long knife held before him, he rushed Grianne a second time. But Bek knew enough by now to appreciate how strong Truls was, and he had already assumed his first attempt at slowing the shape-shifter would fail. He sent a second wave of magic lancing out, a wall of sound that snared the other and sent him flying backwards. Bek cried out, but he did not think Truls even heard him, so caught up was he in his determination to get at Grianne.

But Bek reached her first, dropped to his knees, and wrapped his arms about her protectively. She did not move when he did so. She did not respond in any way.

“Don’t hurt her,” he started to say, turning to find Truls Rohk.

Then something hit him so hard that it knocked him completely free of Grianne and sent him sprawling into the remains of a shattered creeper. Stunned, he dragged himself to his knees. “Truls . . . ,” he gasped as he peered over at Grianne helplessly.

The shape-shifter was bent over her, a menacing shadow, his blade at her exposed throat. “You haven’t the experience for this, boy,” he hissed at Bek. “Not yet. But that doesn’t make you less of an irritation, I’ll give you that. No, don’t try to get up. Stay where you are.”

He was silent a moment, tensed and ready as he leaned closer to Bek’s sister. Then the knife lowered. “What’s wrong with her? She’s in some sort of trance.”

Bek climbed back to his feet in spite of the warning and stumbled over, shaking off the disorienting effects of the blow. “Did you have to hit me so hard?”

“I did if I wanted to be certain you would remember what it meant to use your magic against me.” The other shifted to face him. “What were you thinking?”

Bek shook his head. “Only that I didn’t want you to hurt her. I thought you would kill her outright when you saw Walker. I didn’t think you could see her face, so you wouldn’t know she couldn’t hurt us. I just reacted.”

Truls Rohk grunted. “Next time, think twice before you do.” The blade disappeared into the cloak. “Take the sword out of her hands and see what she does.”

He was already bent over the Druid, probing through the blood-soaked robes, searching for signs of life. Bek knelt in front of the unseeing Grianne and carefully pried her fingers loose from the Sword of Shannara. They released easily, limply, and he caught the talisman in his hand as it fell free. There was no sign of recognition in her eyes. She did not even blink.

Bek laid down the sword and moved Grianne’s arms to her sides. She allowed him to do this without responding in any way. She might have been made of soft clay.

“She doesn’t know anything that’s happening to her,” he said quietly.

“The Druid lives,” Truls Rohk responded. “Barely.”

He straightened the ragged form and tore strips of cloth from his own clothing to stem the flow of blood from the visible wounds. Bek watched helplessly, appalled by the extent of the damage. The Druid’s injuries seemed more internal than external. There were jagged wounds to his chest and stomach, but he was bleeding from his mouth and ears and nose and even his eyes, as well. He seemed to have suffered a major rupture of his organs.

Then abruptly, unexpectedly, the penetrating eyes opened and fixed on Bek. The boy was so startled that for a moment he quit breathing and just stared back at the other.

“Where is she?” Walker whispered in a voice that was thick with blood and pain.

Bek didn’t have to ask whom he was talking about. “She’s right beside us. But she doesn’t seem to know who we are or what’s going on.”

“She is paralyzed by the sword’s magic. She panicked and used her own to try to ward it off. Futile. It was too much. Even for her.”

“Walker,” Truls Rohk said softly, bending close to him. “Tell us what to do.”

The pale face shifted slightly, and the dark eyes settled on the other. “Carry me out of here. Go where I tell you to go. Don’t stop until you get there.”

“But your wounds—”

“My wounds are beyond help.” The Druid’s voice turned suddenly hard and fierce. “There isn’t much time left, shape-shifter. Not for me. Do as I say. Antrax is destroyed. Castledown is dead. What there was of the treasure we came to find, of the books and their contents, is lost.” The eyes shifted. “Bek, bring your sister with us. Lead her by the hand. She will follow.”

Bek glanced at Grianne, then back at Walker. “If we move you . . .”

“Druid, it will kill you to take you out of here!” Truls Rohk snapped angrily. “I didn’t come this far just to bury you!”

The Druid’s strange eyes fixed on him. “Choices of life and death are not always ours to make, Truls. Do as I say.”

Truls Rohk scooped the Druid into the cradle of his arms, slowly and gently, trying not to damage him further. Walker made no sound as he was lifted, his dark head sinking into his chest, his good arm folding over his stomach. Bek strapped the Sword of Shannara across his back, then took Grianne’s hand and pulled her to her feet. She came willingly, easily, and she made no response to being led away.

They passed out of the ruined chamber and back down the passageway through which they had come. At the first juncture, Walker took them in a different direction than the one that had brought them in. Bek saw the dark head move slightly and heard the tired voice whisper instructions. The ends of the Druid’s tattered robes trailed from his limp form, leaving smears of blood on the floor.

As they progressed through the catacombs, Bek glanced at Grianne from time to time, but never once did she look back at him. Her gaze stayed fixed straight ahead, and she moved as if she was sleepwalking. It frightened the boy to see her like this, more so than when she was hunting him. She seemed as if she was nothing more than a shell, the living person she had been gone entirely.

Their progress was slowed now and again by heaps of stone and twisted metal that barred their passage. Once, Truls was forced to lay the Druid down long enough to force back a sheet of twisted metal tightly jammed across their passage. Bek watched the Druid’s eyes close against his pain and weariness, saw him flinch when he was picked up again, his hand clawing at his stomach as if to hold himself together. How Walker could still be alive after losing so much blood was beyond the boy. He had seen injured men before, but none who had lived after being damaged so severely.

Truls Rohk was beside himself. “Druid, this is senseless!” he snapped at one point, stopping in rage and frustration. “Let me try to help you!”

“You help me best by going on, Truls,” was the other’s weak response. “Go, now. Ahead still.”

They walked a long way before finally coming out into a vast underground cavern that did not look as if it was a part of Castledown, but of the earth itself. The cavern was natural, the rock walls unchanged by metal or machines, the ceiling studded with stalactites that dripped water and minerals in steady cadence through the echoing silence. What little light there was emanated from flameless lamps that bracketed the cavern entry and a soft phosphorescence given off by the cavern rock. It was impossible to see the far side of the chamber, though bright enough to discern that it was a long distance off.

At the center of the chamber was a huge body of water as black as ink and smooth as glass.

“Take me to its edge,” Walker ordered Truls Rohk.

They made their way along the uneven cavern floor, which was littered with loose rock and slick with damp. Moss grew in dark patches, and tiny ferns wormed through cracks in the stone. That anything could grow down here, bereft of sunlight, surprised Bek.

He squeezed Grianne’s hand reassuringly, an automatic response to the encroachment of fresh darkness and solitude. He glanced at her immediately to see if she had noticed, but her gaze was still directed straight ahead.

At the water’s edge, they stopped. On Walker’s instructions, Truls Rohk knelt to lay him down, cradling him so that his head and shoulders rested in the shape-shifter’s arms. Bek found himself thinking how odd it seemed, that a creature who was himself not whole, but bits and pieces held together by smoky mist, should be the Druid’s bearer. He remembered when he had first met Walker in the Highlands of Leah. The Druid had seemed so strong then, so indomitable, as if nothing could ever change him. Now he was broken and ragged, leaking blood and life in a faraway land.

Tears came to Bek’s eyes as swiftly as the thought, his response to the harsh realization that death approached. He did not know what to do. He wanted to help Walker, to make him whole again, to restore him to who he had been when they had first met all those months ago. He wanted to say something about how much the Druid had done for him. But all he could do was hold his sister’s hand and wait to see what would happen.

“This is as far as I go,” Walker said softly, coughing blood and wincing with the pain the movement caused.

Truls Rohk wiped the blood away with his sleeve. “You can’t die on me, Druid. I won’t allow it. We’ve too much more to do, you and I.”

“We’ve done all we’re allowed to do, shape-shifter,” Walker replied. His smile was surprisingly warm. “Now we must go our separate ways. You’ll have to find your own adventures, make your own trouble.”

The other grunted. “Not likely I could ever do the job as well as you. Game-playing has always been your specialty, not mine.”

Bek knelt beside them, pulling Grianne down with him. She let him place her however he wished and did nothing to acknowledge she knew he was there. Truls Rohk edged away from her.

“I’m done with this life,” Walker said. “I’ve done what I can with it, and I have to be satisfied with that. Make certain, when you return, that Kylen Elessedil honors his father’s bargain. His brother will stand with you; Ahren’s stronger than you think. He has the Elfstones now, but the Elfstones won’t make the difference. He will. Remember that. Remember as well what we made this journey for. What we have found here, what we have recovered, belongs to us.”

Truls Rohk spat. “You’re not making any sense, Druid. What are you talking about? We have nothing to show for what we’ve done! We’ve claimed nothing! The Elfstones? They weren’t ours to begin with! What of the magic we sought? What of the books that contained it?”

Walker made a dismissive gesture. “The magic contained in the books, the magic I spoke of to both Allardon Elessedil and his son, was never the reason for this voyage.”

“Then what was?” Truls Rohk was incensed. “Are we to play guessing games all night, Druid? What are we doing here? Tell us! Has this all been for nothing? Give us something to hope for! Now, while there’s still time! Because I don’t think you have much left! Look at you! You’re—”

He couldn’t make himself finish the sentence, biting off the rest of what he was going to say in bitter distaste.

“Dying?” Walker spoke the word for him. “It’s all right to say it, Truls. Dying will set me free from promises and responsibilities that have kept me in chains for longer than I care to remember. Anyway, it’s only a word.”

“You say it, then. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

Walker reached up with his good hand and took hold of the other’s cloak. To Bek’s surprise, Truls Rohk did not pull away.

“Listen to me. Before I came to this land, before I decided to undertake this voyage, I went into the Valley of Shale, to the Hadeshorn, and I summoned the shade of Allanon. I spoke with him, asking what I could expect if I chose to follow the castaway’s map. He told me that of all the goals I sought to accomplish, I would succeed in only one. For a long time, Truls, I thought that he meant I would recover the magic of the books from the Old World. I thought that was what I was supposed to do. I thought that was the purpose of this voyage. It wasn’t.”

His fingers tightened on the shape-shifter’s cloak. “I made the mistake of thinking I could shape the future in the way I sought. I was wrong. Life doesn’t permit it, not even if you are a Druid. We are given glimpses of possibilities, nothing more. The future is a map drawn in the sand, and the tide can wash it away in a moment. It is so here. All of our efforts in coming to this land, Truls, all of our sacrifices, have been for something we never once considered.”

He paused, his breathing weak and labored, the effort of speaking further too much for him.

“Then what did we come here for?” Truls Rohk asked impatiently, still angered by what he was hearing. “What, Druid?”

“For her,” Walker whispered, and pointed at Grianne.

The shape-shifter was so stunned that for a moment he could not seem to find anything to say in response. It was as if the fire had gone out of him completely.

“We came for Grianne?” Bek asked in surprise, not sure he had heard correctly.

“It will become clear to you when you are home again,” Walker whispered, his words almost inaudible, even in the deep silence of the cavern. “She is your charge, Bek. She is your responsibility now, your sister recovered as you wished she might be. Return her to the Four Lands. Do what you must, but see her home again.”

“This makes no sense at all!” Truls Rohk snapped in fury. “She is our enemy!”

“Give me your word, Bek,” Walker said, his eyes never leaving the boy.

Bek nodded. “You have it.”

Walker held his gaze a moment longer, then looked at the shape-shifter. “And you, as well, Truls. Your word.”

For a moment, Bek thought Truls Rohk wasn’t going to give it. The shape-shifter didn’t say anything, staring at the Druid in silence. Tension radiated from his dark form, yet he refused to reveal what he was thinking.

Walker’s fingers kept their death grip on the shape-shifter’s cloak. “Your word,” he whispered again. “Trust me enough to give it.”

Truls Rohk exhaled in a hiss of frustration and dismay. “All right. I give you my word.”

“Care for her as you would for each other,” the Druid continued, his eyes back on Bek. “She will not always be like this. She will recover one day. But until then, she needs looking after. She needs you to ward her from danger.”

“What can we do to help her wake?” Bek pressed.

The Druid took a long, ragged breath. “She must help herself, Bek. The Sword of Shannara has revealed to her the truth about her life, about the lies she has been told and the wrong paths she has taken. She has been forced to confront who she has become and what she has done. She is barely grown, and already she has committed more heinous wrongs and destructive acts than others will commit in a lifetime. She has much to forgive herself for, even given the fact that she was so badly misled by the Morgawr. The responsibility for finding forgiveness lies with her. When she finds a way to accept that, she will recover.”

“What if she doesn’t?” Truls Rohk asked. “It may be, Druid, that she is beyond forgiveness, not just from others, but even from herself. She is a monster, even in this world.”

Bek gave the shape-shifter an angry glance, thinking that Truls would never change his opinion of Grianne, that to him she would always be the Ilse Witch and his enemy.

The Druid had a fit of coughing, then steadied. “She is human, Truls—like you,” he replied softly. “Others labeled you a monster. They were wrong to do so. It is the same with her. She is not beyond redemption. But that is her path to walk, not yours. Yours is to see that she has the chance to walk it.”

He coughed again, more deeply. His breathing was so thick and wet that with every breath it seemed he might choke on his own blood. The sound of it emanated from deep in his chest, where his lungs were filling. Yet he lifted himself into a sitting position, freed himself from Truls Rohk’s arms, and motioned him away.

“Leave me. Take Grianne and walk back to the cavern entrance. When I am gone, follow the passageway that bears left all the way to the surface. Seek out the others who still live—the Rovers, Ahren Elessedil, Ryer Ord Star. Quentin Leah, perhaps. One or two more, if they were lucky. Sail home again. Don’t linger here. Antrax is finished. The Old World has gone back into the past for good. The New World, the Four Lands, is what matters.”

Truls Rohk stayed where he was. “I won’t leave you alone. Don’t ask it of me.”

Walker’s head sagged, his dark hair falling forward to shadow his lean face. “I won’t be alone, Truls. Now go.”

Truls Rohk hesitated, then rose slowly to his feet. Bek stood up, as well, taking Grianne’s hand and pulling her up with him. For a moment no one moved, then the shape-shifter wheeled away without a word and started back through the loose rock for the cavern entrance. Bek followed wordlessly, leading Grianne, glancing back over his shoulder to look at Walker. The Druid was slumped by the edge of the underground lake, his dark robes wet with his blood, the slow, gentle heave of his shoulders the only indication that he still lived. Bek had an almost uncontrollable urge to turn around and go back for him, but he knew it would be pointless. The Druid had made his choice.

At the cavern entrance, Truls Rohk glanced back at Bek, then stopped abruptly and pointed toward the lake. “Druid games, boy,” he hissed. “Look! See what happens now!”

Bek turned. The lake was roiling and churning at its center, and a wicked green light shone from its depths. A dark and spectral figure rose from its center and hung suspended in the air. A face lifted out of the cloak’s hood, dusky-skinned and black-bearded, a face Bek, without ever having seen it before, knew at once.

“Allanon,” he whispered.

Walker Boh dreamed of the past. He was no longer in pain, but his weariness was so overwhelming that he barely knew where he was. His sense of time had evaporated, and it seemed to him now that yesterday was as real and present as today. So it was that he found himself remembering how he had become a Druid, so long ago that all those who were there at the time were gone now. He had never wanted to be one of them, had never trusted the Druids as an order. He had lived alone for many years, avoiding his Ohmsford heritage and any contact with its other descendants. It had taken the loss of his arm to turn him to his destiny, to persuade him that the blood mark bestowed three hundred years earlier by Allanon on the forehead of his ancestor, Brin Ohmsford, had been intended for him.

That was a long time ago.

Everything was so long ago.

He watched the greenish light rise out of the depths of the underground lake, breaking the surface of its waters in shards of brightness. He watched it widen and spread, then grow in intensity as a path from the netherworld opened beneath. It was a languid, surreal experience and became a part of his dreams.

When the cloaked figure appeared in the light’s emerald wake, he knew at once who it was. He knew instinctively, just as he knew he was dying. He watched with weary anticipation, ready to embrace what waited, to cast off the chains of his life. He had borne his burden of office for as long as he was able. He had done the best he could. He had regrets, but none that gave him more than passing pause. What he had accomplished would not be apparent right away to those who mattered, but it would become clear in time. Some would embrace it. Some would turn away. In either case, it was out of his hands.

The dark figure crossed the surface of the lake to where Walker lay and reached for him. His hand lifted automatically in response. Allanon’s dark countenance stared down, penetrating eyes fixing on him. There was approval in those eyes. There was a promise of peace.

Walker smiled.

As Bek and Truls Rohk watched, the shade reached Walker’s side. Green light played about their dark forms, slicing through them like razors, slashing them with emerald blades. There was a hiss, but it was soft and distant, the whisper of a dying man’s breath.

The shade bent for Walker, the effort strong and purposeful. Walker’s hand came up, perhaps to ward it off, perhaps to welcome it; it was difficult to tell. It made no difference. The shade lifted him into his arms and cradled him like a child.

Then together they made a slow retreat back across the lake, gliding on air, their dark forms illuminated by shards of light that gathered about them like fireflies. When both were encased in the glow, it closed around completely and they slowly disappeared into its brilliant center until nothing remained but a faint rippling of the lake’s dark waters. In seconds, even that was gone, and the cavern was still and empty once more.

Bek realized suddenly that he was crying. How much of what Walker had hoped to see accomplished in this life had he lived to witness? Not anything of what had brought him here. Not anything of what he had envisioned of the future. He had died the last of his order, an outcast and perhaps a failure. The thought saddened the boy more than he would have believed possible.

“It’s finished,” he said quietly.

Truls Rohk’s response was surprising. “No, boy. It’s just begun. Wait and see.”

Bek looked at him, but the shape-shifter refused to say anything more. They stood where they were for a few seconds, unable to break away. It was as if they were expecting something more to happen. It was as if something must. But nothing did, and at last they quit looking and began to walk back through the passageways of Castledown to the world above.